Angel of the Abyss
by crimsonduo
Summary: No matter one's station in life, the Dance of Death unites all. "What's wrong with you Sebastian?" "My name," he says, "is no longer Sebastian." /warnings for major character death/
1. Chapter 1

Blood was everywhere. It covered his hands and stained his coat. He leaned against a tree, eyes wide and pupils blown. His breathing was too fast, his knees too weak. Sliding down the tree trunk and sitting on the dirty forest floor, he stared at the two corpses next to him. They were messy. He couldn't quite believe that he had killed them. Back when he worked for Ciel he would never have made such a mess of himself. His coat would have been clean, his hands clad in spotless gloves.

Yet there he was, sitting in the dirt covered in blood, with two of the most gruesome corpses he'd ever created. He was starving. He mourned the days when he'd had a contract, and a guaranteed meal. Or at least, when he'd believed he had a guaranteed meal. But those days were gone, along with the name Sebastian Michaelis, and now he was a wild, nameless beast with no tamer.

If he'd been in better sorts, he would have heard the footsteps that tainted the silence of the moonless night. But instead all he heard was the ringing of his own ears, and then it was too late. A pair of stiletto-clad feet appeared next to the bodies, and then the end of a chainsaw dug into the ground next to them.

He lifted his head wearily, and blinked to clear his blurred vision as he stared up at the being in front of him. Due to the combined effects of the dark and his own ill health, he could just barely make out the familiar features of the scarlet reaper he'd encountered so long ago.

"Grell," he said, and then coughed violently, "it's been a while since we last tried to kill each other."

Visions of the two of them locked in a vicious yet beautiful dance of death flashed in his mind. He remembered Grell's bloodthirsty taunting grin and the snide jabs they'd thrown at each other. It seems like a whole lifetime ago.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" Grell isn't grinning now. She looks more serious than when they'd last met, sadder, somehow. She doesn't try to flirt either, which throws him off. Does he really look that bad?

He must be taking too long to answer her question, because she looks him up and down grimly, and then surveys the state of the two bodies.

"Scott Harvey and Karen Mills." It's not a question, it's a statement and her tone makes him uncomfortable. It's too direct. Grell isn't direct or serious; she dances around topics daintily, decorating death with pretty words and dramatic flair. But then, he supposes, this entire situation is something completely out of the ordinary.

"You're here for their souls." He hacks a bit, and a vile substance with the consistency of clotted blood and inky black in color runs down his chin. He wipes his chin with his hand, but ends up smearing blood on his face well.

He's mortified. He's a prideful creature after all, but Grell doesn't laugh or mock at him. Her red lips don't even begin to twitch into the smallest hint of grin. She just looks tired. He's grateful in that moment, for possibly the first time in his life.

"You can't have Scott Harvey's. I took it. I tore it from him." He stands up weakly, and leans limply against the tree, watching Grell warily.

"I know. However, I'm not here to collect souls." She inspects her nails for a second, "I didn't realize you were so out of the loop. I don't work for the Dispatch anymore."

He stares at her. If he'd been feeling better, he would have smirked and said something witty, but he can't quite muster the energy now, so he settles for staring.

"Well," she continues, laughing bitterly, "I don't know if they've officially fired me or not, but I certainly haven't done my job in a long time. At the very least, I have a hell of a lot of overtime."

She grins then, but it's a cold, self-deprecating grin. It's not the grin she wears when she fights or reaps. It's a startlingly human grin and he doesn't like it.

"What's wrong with you Sebastian?" She asks again, but he can tell that this time he's not going to get out of answering it.

"My name," he says, "is no longer Sebastian."

Grell raises an eyebrow.

"Ciel's dead," she says, her voice matter-of-fact.

"He's dead, but I didn't kill him." He's having trouble organizing his thoughts into sentences that make any sort of sense, but Grell's smart. He wouldn't have admitted it before, but he knows it. She's smart, possibly smarter than him, and she can guess what he's trying to say.

"You didn't eat his soul. Why didn't you complete the contract?"

"He was sick Grell. Really sick. Medical science wasn't what it is today."

She hums thoughtfully and then stares at him. Then, she starts nudging the bodies with her foot. His eyes flutter closed and he's nearly asleep. He's drifting on the plane between consciousness and nothingness when she slaps him hard across the face.

"Wake up Sebastian." She pinches his arm painfully with her nails, "we're leaving."

He must fall asleep at some point, because the next thing he knows, he wakes up in a dark room, with light filtering in from between the slats of a boarded up window. He sits up slowly, and hacks up more black gunk. It stains his already filthy gloves further, and his vision in hazy as he stares at them.

"Hello Sleeping Beauty," Grell singsongs, her entirely too loud voice interrupting the throbbing in his head.

Narrowing his eyes at her and getting to his feet, he begins to try and wipe some of the filth from himself with his handkerchief. Given that he's covered in blood, dirt and some sort of demonic death gunk, this doesn't prove to be an achievable task.

"There's a sink in the other room. Cold water, but it'll do."

His head snaps up to look at Grell. He'd forgotten she was there for a minute. Suddenly, he realizes that he and Grell haven't spoken in years, and they hadn't parted on incredibly good terms either. Suspicion suddenly flooded him in a sickening wave, and he buttoned what was left of his tattered tailcoat hurriedly.

"Thank you for your help, but I'll be going now," he turns to walk out the door, but is suddenly slammed against the wall, Grell's arm pressed threateningly across his throat.

"You're not going anywhere Michaelis. Not in that condition anyway. One minute you're half dead in the woods, a couple of the sloppiest corpses I've ever seen at your feet with their souls all but ripped from them and the next you're out the door good as new? I don't think so." She removes her arm from his throat and looks at him for a couple seconds.

He realizes that she was trying to start a fight with him, and he didn't take the bait. It also hits him that she would beat him easily right now; she could kill him in a second without really even trying. It also occurs to him that she didn't.

"Where's your fancy silverware now? No taunting words? No dance macabre? Either you've mellowed out severely since we last seen each other, or you're about ready for my old friends down at the Dispatch to come and gut you, and I doubt it's the former."


	2. Chapter 2

Grell throws a rag at him, and points towards a door.

"Bathroom's in there. Go wash up." She then pauses, and looks him up and down. "Do you need help?"

She doesn't appear to be mocking him, but he still feels a sting of shame at her words.

"No." He answers far too quickly. His voice is sharper than he intends but Grell doesn't react. "I'll be fine on my own." He adds, his voice softer.

Grell just nods and turns away. Sebastian stumbles into the bathroom and shuts the door. The window in this room is boarded up too, allowing only a tiny sliver of light through the dusty crack of visible glass. It's dirty. Everything in this house is filthy. Fine layers of grime coat every surface. He doesn't have the energy to feel disgusted and anyway, he thinks bitterly, he fits right in at the moment, in his tattered suit covered in blood and gunk.

The rag Grell gave him is reasonably clean, and he runs it under freezing cold water from the rusted tap, and then wipes his face with it. There's a grimy, cracked mirror above the chipped, slightly mouldy sink, and he takes in his appearance as he stares into it.

His facial features are gaunt, his eyes sunken and dull. His hair is limp and greasy, no longer artfully framing his face but instead tangled and brushed back. A large bruise covers one of his cheeks, and his lip is split and swollen.

He thinks back to when he was handsome and charming, but it's difficult to recall, looking in the mirror at this haggard stranger. He wipes at his face, gingerly wiping away blood and the gunk that covered his chin when he hacked it up.

Sticking his head in the sink, he attempts to rinse at least a little of the blood and grease from his hair. It doesn't work very well, but it at least clears his head a little. He then sits on the edge of the bathtub and runs his hands through his wet hair to try and tame the knots.

He doesn't know what to do about his suit. The gloves are a loss. There's no way they're getting salvaged, so he tosses them aside. Not so much mourning the silken gloves themselves, but the image they'd represented.

The rest of his clothing is torn and covered in a vile mixture of gunk, blood and dirt. He doesn't know what he can do to fix that, because he doesn't have any other clothes to change into.

Steeling himself, he heads back into the main room. Grell is rummaging through a large bag, and turns to face him when he enters the room.

"So I don't suppose you have any money or valuables on you?" She asks, not sounding hopeful in the slightest.

"Do I look like a man who has anything of any value?" He asks, shaking from a mixture of the cold and weakness. Maybe wetting his hair wasn't a good idea.

"No need to be a smartass. God, I find you half dead in the woods and you can't even muster up the grace to pause the sarcasm for three minutes." She tosses a shirt and a pair of pants at him.

He doesn't catch them, and they land on the mattress next to him.

"I don't know if they'll fit exactly perfectly, but it's something. That suit has seen better days."

"Are they yours?" He asks, noting the height difference between himself and Grell.

"No." She says shortly. She pauses for a minute, and then says, "They belonged to my partner."

"Oh." He isn't quite sure of how to respond to that, so he goes into the bathroom and changes out of his suit and into the clothes.

They aren't brilliant quality, nor are they particularly in style, but they're something and they fit relatively well, which surprises him. They hang loose on his frame, which is no longer slim and muscled, but rather skeletal.

He folds his tattered suit, if only to kill more time before seeing Grell again.

Partner? It shouldn't shock him as much as it does. Of course Grell would have partners. They hadn't dated, not really. Why shouldn't she have moved on to someone else? He had. Not that there'd really been anyone to move on from, because somehow he doesn't think one unfortunate night many years ago, after which they'd never seen each other since, even counts as a relationship to begin with. Not even a fling really.

Even so, he feels a tinge of curiosity that he knows he'll regret acting on, so instead he gathers up his old clothing and walks back into the room with Grell.

She's sitting on the mattress, her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, thinking. He stands quietly for a second in the doorway, and she looks up, her face grim.

"We'd better get going," she says, taking his suit from him. "Do you think we should bother saving these? Or should we get rid of them?"

"Get rid of it." He says, shocking himself. "It's no use to me anymore."

Grell nods at him, and shoves it in the bag anyway.

"We can't leave evidence of us being here," she explains, when he looks at her questioningly.

She beckons him out the backdoor of the house, bag slung over her shoulder and walks briskly down an alleyway. He trails behind her, the two of them looking like a pair of regular working-class citizens as they hurry down the alley.

As he follows behind her, he takes in what she's wearing for the first time since they'd run into each other.

She's clad in simple grey dress pants and a long black coat, the only visible red on her is her glasses, which appear to be the same as the last time they'd met, and her hair, which is tucked into a cap. Her heels click threateningly on the pavement, but they are no longer fancy and decorative, but instead plain black with sturdy stitching.

He's shocked by the drastic change in appearance; it's so different from the flamboyant, well made up Grell he once knew. He remembers the night they'd met, when she'd murdered Madam Red, and wonders where the red coat she'd stolen that night is.

His vision is rather hazy, and he feels light headed. He's shaking rather badly, and he knows he won't make it far without needing to stop and rest.

"Where are we going?" He asks, voice wavering.

Grell pauses, turning around to look at him. She presses her lips together, and smirks as though reliving an inside joke that he's not a part of.

"Where everyone goes when they need information," she says, "the Undertaker."

The funeral parlour is dimly lit and eerie, just like the last time Sebastian had been there – before Ciel's death. As always, the Undertaker is nowhere to be seen, and there's the underlying aura of death that suffocates the air. He swallows, trying to stand straight even in his weakened state. He doubted that the reaper had become more fond of him since they last met, especially considering that Ciel's death hung over this whole situation like a bad omen.

"It's Grell," says Grell, her voice clear and firm, "I need your help."

One of the coffin lids begins to slide off slowly, filling the room with an uncanny scraping sound. The spine-chilling sound of Undertaker's giggling fills the room, and Sebastian feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise up.

Grell appears unaffected, and stands tall, looking miserable and rather lost. Sebastian marvels for a second at how young she looks, even in the poor lighting.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here," the Undertaker cackles, as he strokes his chin with his nails and grins widely, "look what the cat dragged in. If it isn't the demon who went by the name Sebastian Michaelis."

He giggles wildly, and bites into a bone shaped cookie. Moving erratically around the room, he produces three cups of tea in various scientific measuring devices. Sebastian regards his cautiously, yet sips it hesitantly when the Undertaker fixes him with a grin. He cackles when the liquid touches Sebastian's lips, and Sebastian clenches his teeth and narrows his eyes in contempt.

"You're rather close to winding up in one of my beautiful coffins, demon." Undertaker says giddily, "I look forward to the day with much excitement."

"Actually," says Grell, her voice matter-of-fact, "We're here to seek advice about how to stop him from dying."

Undertaker's head whips around to face her, and his ever-smiling mouth turns down, showing disgust. He opens his mouth to speak, but Grell cuts him off.

"I know, Undertaker. I know. But you have to at least tell us why he's like this. Even if you can't stop it."

They stare at each other for a second, and Sebastian gets the undeniable feeling that he's missed something important here, but he knows that no one is going to explain it to him, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Undertaker averts his gaze from Grell, despite the fact that his fringe hangs over his eyes, and is silent for a few minutes.

"Well," he says finally, "You know my price." His grin twists it's way onto his face again, and a mangled laugh escapes his lips.

Grell exhales angrily, and the Undertaker laughs harder. She fixes Sebastian with a calculating glare, and then says to him, "You have to leave."

"What?" Sebastian is shocked. He'd never predicted that he'd be the one asked to leave, and the shame hits him harshly.

"You have to leave. Just for a few minutes. Wait outside. Don't talk to anyone."

Sebastian opens his mouth to argue, but Grell has turned back to the Undertaker and the angry glare she's fixed him with is enough to convince him to wait outside.

Five minutes later, Sebastian is welcomed back into the funeral parlour with by a seething Grell. Undertaker is howling with hysteria, waving his sleeve-covered hands around in a fit of laughter.

When he's finally calmed down enough to talk, he turns to Sebastian.

"So, Sebastian. You can't get back into hell, is that right?" He giggles a bit at this, as though Sebastian's plight is some mildly funny joke.

Grell turns to look at him, looking surprised and worried.

"Yes," he says shakily, "that's right."

"I thought as much," Undertaker says, "You didn't kill Ciel." It's not a question. It's a statement, and Sebastian feels indignation rising in him.

"No. I didn't kill him. He died from an illness, I couldn't prevent it." His tone is snippy, a poor cover-up for his own embarrassment.

"Yet here you are, in my funeral parlour, wasting my time," says the Undertaker, with a dangerous lilt to his voice, "I have absolutely no interest in preventing your death. In fact, I was rather looking forward to it. However," he fixes Grell with a pointed stare, "I will provide my assistance for the time being, but if you step out of line, demon, I will kill you myself."

Sebastian stares at the elderly reaper in front of him, believing every word he said. There was no doubt in his mind that this legendary reaper would kill him given the opportunity. He also knew that in his weakened state he would be completely unable to fend him off.

So he bit back his pride and answered, "I understand."


End file.
